


On the Finding of Witches

by CornishIvy



Series: On The Finding Of Witches [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drama, Fluff, Witchcraft AU, Witches, i'm not used to writing stories where no one dies so we'll see how it goes, kind of, the one where everyone's a witch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-12 01:46:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19219105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CornishIvy/pseuds/CornishIvy
Summary: Adam Young is a witch. Of this, he is vaguely aware. The new neighbors are all witches. Of this, he is absolutely certain.Currently undergoing major rewrites!





	1. Foxglove Cottage and What Happened There (Part the First)

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have a plan or an outline for this one, which is highly unusual for me. I just really wanted Crowley and Aziraphale to teach Adam witchcraft.

Mr. Fell and Mr. Crowley’s arrival in Tadfield caused something of a stir among the local populace. No one ever moved _to_ Tadfield. It wasn’t the sort of place for that. People moved _out_ of Tadfield, or perhaps a better way of putting it is that they moved _on_ _from_ Tadfield. It was a sleepy little town solidly located in nowhere-really, and as far its residents were concerned no one had any business being there who wasn’t already situated. And even then, only sort of.

There was an American airbase very nearby, and the children thereof, known colloquially as the “air force transients,” were in and out of the local school with frequent and reassuring regularity, long before they could begin to lose their appalling American accents or leave much of an impression on Tadfield proper. Naturally, they didn’t count.

And yet, though the inhabitants of Tadfield couldn’t be expected to notice these things, the town never grew smaller and business never flagged. Affairs moved along, lazy and steady as a stream that considers maybe one day being a river but never gets around to it. 

Any interruption, therefore, was nearly world-shaking.

It helped, of course, that the world, or at least a few rows of houses, did indeed shake as an old Bentley roared past, much faster than was reasonable. R. P. Tyler even had to shuffle rather quickly out of its way, tugged along by his wildly yapping dog. He considered shouting after it as it screeched around a corner, but R. P. Tyler had never done such a disruptive thing as _shout_ , and wasn’t about to start.

 The Bentley tore through town and just a little outside it before slamming to a halt in front of a removed cottage. This particular cottage was Foxglove Cottage, and it had stood empty for a decade or so since its last occupants had moved on, and, naturally, no one moved in.

“It’s perfect!” a young man exclaimed as he uncoiled from the driver’s seat, “Didn’t I say it was perfect? Look at that garden! Just needs someone to _keep it in line_ ,” this he directed at an unshapely rhododendron, which quaked in bewildered terror. This was, of course, Mr. Crowley, and he didn’t look at all like he belonged in Tadfield. He cut a darkly sharp figure in the overgrown garden, all crisp lines and taut energy. Every pointed, snakeskin-clad step clicked purposefully, even on the dirt. He wore excruciatingly dark sunglasses that blocked light from every angle, and the only spot of color on him was his (artfully tousled) wine-red hair.

“Yes, quite,” his companion agreed distractedly, stumbling out of the car. He took a moment to gather his bearings and leveled a faintly cross frown at Mr. Crowley, “Must you go so fast, dear?” he said, “You nearly flattened that poor dog.”

He added, after a pause, “And that old man, too.”

This was, of course, Mr. Fell, and he looked perfectly suited to Tadfield. He was an older, almost portly, gentlemen with cottony white hair that was getting just long to threaten to curl. He wore a tweed jacket and waistcoat in creamy beige, and a grey tartan bowtie. His footsteps made no sound against the earth and failed to ruffle any of the grass or weeds. One could tell right away that he belonged in a library, or an old museum office, perhaps.

“Eh,” Mr. Crowley waved an airy hand, “Should’ve stayed out of the road, then, shouldn’t he? But what do you think?”

Mr. Crowley’s veneer of cultured indifference thinned just slightly to reveal earnest hope, “You do like it?”

Mr. Fell smiled fondly, “Yes, dear, I love it. You were absolutely right,”

Mr. Crowley would have likely said something to cover up his apparent relief and delight, but was pulled up short. He licked his lips, thin tongue flicking for just an instant, then he scowled and muttered, “Nosy neighbors,” and snapped his fingers.

In an instant, Adam Young was brought back to himself.

Instead of Foxglove Cottage, he was looking at his own bedroom wall, his dog (named Dog) curled at his feet.

He was equal parts wary and indignant. That had never happened before. He didn’t usually spy on people. In fact, he only ever did that particular trick to make sure the coast was clear when he and his friends were up to no good, such as stealing apples from R. P. Tyler’s tree. He hadn’t meant to be rude, exactly. He was just curious about the new people. And, he reasoned, his curiosity was entirely justified. Whoever that man was, he’d stopped Adam’s Watching.

That had never happened before.

While it was perfectly natural and ordinary for _Adam_ to Watch things happening far away, or discern if someone was telling the truth, or speak to his dog, or change the weather if he really wanted, it was another matter entirely for someone else to catch him at it. 

Adam wondered what else he could do.

 

Mrs. Young decided the next morning to visit Foxglove Cottage. She’d never had the opportunity before to do things like bring pies to new neighbors or invite them for tea. It felt like something she should do, she explained over breakfast, the sort of thing one was supposed to do when new people moved into a town.

Mr. Young nodded, never looking up from his newspaper, and said, “Yes, yes, I see.”

That afternoon, Adam asked to go with her.

Pleased by his neighborly interest, Mrs. Young allowed (pressed) him to carry the fresh-baked pie in a wicker basket with a checkered cloth to keep it warm.

She tried to insist that Dog not accompany them, but when they set out with Dog trotting at their heels, she elected not to remark on it.  

Tadfield was really a very little town, and walking was as good a way as any to get from place to another. The weather, always obliging, was perfectly cool and sunny, and the two enjoyed a pleasant stroll through town and a small patch of wood, to Foxglove Cottage.

They came to an abrupt halt upon reaching their destination.

“Oh, goodness!” said Mrs. Young.

This was something of an understatement. What had only the day before been an untamed tangle of briar and bush was now a strictly laid and sinfully luxurious garden. The whole yard was arranged in waves that swirled about the house like iron filings around a magnet, but perhaps a bit more art nouveau. If she could have looked past the sheer volume of plant life, Mrs. Young would have been similarly awed by the painstaking perfection of each specimen, down to the tiniest blossom. Every vine curled by perfect ratios, each stalk exactly straight. From the lily-of-the-valley that peeked demurely from their patch, to the English yew that swelled in graceful arches about the gate, to the rhododendron that stood proud (and quivering) in a neatly trimmed sphere.

While Mrs. Young admired the garden, Adam hung back, mouth set in a tight line. Without being told, he knew the names of every green growing thing in the garden. On their own, they would never have garnered a second look from him. All together, however, so deliberately caught and held within the bounds of the stone walls, they made him uneasy.

Daphne, monkshood, lords-and-ladies, spotted parsley, nightshade, and, of course, foxglove. The cottage’s own namesake burst in riots of color, thick and tall. The sight of it made Adam’s hands itch. He glared at a nearby morning glory in a way that said, “You shouldn’t be here. I don’t want you here.”

The morning glory glared back in a way that said, “Oh, yeah? Tell _him_ that.”

Dog dutifully growled, which impressed the garden not at all.

“Come on, Adam,” his mother called from the front step, “Don’t be shy!”

“I’m not shy,” Adam said darkly, but steeled his nerves and joined her at the door.

Adam had been squaring up for some kind of confrontation. He expected that when the door opened, Mr. Crowley would point at him and exclaim something to the effect of, “You!” or, “We meet at last!” He hadn’t quite pinned what would happen after, but it would be very exciting, and Adam would naturally win.

Unfortunately, it was not Mr. Crowley who answered Mrs. Young’s knock, but Mr. Fell, about whom Adam had quite forgotten.

“Oh, hello! What a delightful surprise,” he said, in a way that made Adam truly believe that he was both delighted and surprised.

Adam let the adults exchange pleasantries while he surreptitiously tried to peek past Mr. Fell. He’d only managed to glimpse an enormous stone fireplace before his attention was being called back.

“… didn’t we, sweetheart?” his mother was saying.

Taking his cue, he replied, “Yup,” and lifted the basket for Mr. Fell’s inspection.

Meeting the man’s gaze was like stepping from shade into sunshine, blue as the Springtime sky and seven times more open. To be in his sight was to be standing on the banks of a river, roaring and frothing here, still as glass there. Adam met his eye resolutely, and whatever Mr. Fell saw in his turn must have been good, because he beamed at Adam and said, “How _wonderful_.”

Adam handed him the pie, trying to convey a request by projecting thoughts to Mr. Fell’s brain like a laser. It apparently worked. With an indulgent chuckle, Mr. Fell stepped aside and asked, “Won’t you please come in? I couldn’t possibly eat this by myself.”

He was lying.


	2. Foxglove Cottage and What Happened There (Part the Second) as Well as Some of What Happened at Jasmine Cottage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No questions whatsoever are answered, not even in the slightest.

Mrs. Henderson had only known the new tenants of Jasmine Cottage for a little over two hours, and was already thoroughly convinced they were witches. Or rather, that Ms. Device was a witch, and that Mr. Pulsifer was simply barmy. Clearly. Being married to a witch, and an American one at that.

She would later tell R. P. Tyler that it just figured, didn’t it, what with that young lady not taking her husband’s name, of course they were strange. Just as strange, she’d wager, as those other new neighbors, you know, the (here she would lower her voice and glance about guiltily) _gay_ couple?

R. P. Tyler would worry that “strange” in this case meant something in the way of “disruptive.” 




In the meantime, Mrs. Henderson watched, agog, as the movers hauled in great boxes full of bizarre instruments and books. One box was entirely filled with magazines and newspapers with titles like _The New Aquairan, The Wyld Hunt,_ and _Smithsonian._

Bizarre.

She eyed the various cooking appliances, all in chrome, that had to be set into the walls by hired workmen, while she helped Ms. Device hang bundles of beads and drying herbs from the exposed rafters.

The young woman certainly looked the part of a witch. Pointed, lace-up boots peeked from beneath a long indigo skirt. Her top was more shirtwaist than blouse, and her hair, though twisted into a tight bun, was obviously long and thick. The glasses she wore couldn’t be described as “glasses” with total accuracy. They were, more precisely, “spectacles.”

“Thanks so much for lending a hand,” Ms. Device was saying, “you really didn’t have to.”

“No trouble at all, dear,” Mrs. Henderson said brightly, edging away from could only have been a stainless-steel cauldron, “It’s what any good neighbor would do, I’m reasonably certain.”

Mr. Pulsifer swept into the kitchen then, mantled coat billowing behind him, pins jingling on his lapels. This might give the impression that he cut an impressive, or at the very least dramatic figure. He did not. Newton Pulsifer gave form, if not practice, to the concept of an IT professional. Under the coat he wore a polo shirt and khakis, and above the coat he wore glasses that were more tape than frame by that point.

“Darling,” he said, “There’s someone in the garden. I think he’s here to see you.”

Ms. Device sighed, “Who is it?”

“I don’t know, some kind of constrictor. But he was wearing sunglasses,” Mr. Pulsifer answered.

Ms. Device rolled her eyes in a long-suffering way, “Of course. I’ll be right out.”

Mrs. Henderson shook her head. Poor Mr. Pulsifer was clearly lost to the world if he had picked up enough of an American accent to pronounce “contractor” like _that._

 

The interior of Foxglove Cottage wasn’t at all what Adam expected. Instead of sparking electrodes or skulls lying about, there were soft chairs, a couch, and a gargantuan fireplace. Adam thought of the witch from Hansel and Gretel, and estimated that no fewer than four children could be comfortably roasted within it. The cottage, however, didn’t appear the sort of place where children were roasted. A large window filled the room with a cheery light, and the basket and pie with its checkered cloth were perfectly at home on the table therein.

It was, he thought with some disappointment, _cozy_.

Mr. Fell ushered them inside and into the chairs, then produced a tea tray and began to serve. And “produce,” he certainly did. Adam knew in his individual way that the tea tray and everything on it had not, until that instant, existed at all.

Mrs. Young didn’t notice anything amiss and chatted happily with Mr. Fell, who, for his part, was very much enjoying the pie. So much, in fact, that maybe he wouldn’t notice or mind if Adam had a bit of a look around.

Mr. Fell glanced sideways at Adam, but made no comment as the boy slid away from the table with Dog tiptoeing behind.    

 

The rest of the house proved similarly disappointing. Mostly because Adam didn’t know what he was looking for. Had he been more alert, he might have noticed that the cottage contained too many rooms and windows than would have made sense from the outside. But neither the library, the kitchen, the dining room, the second library, the three bedrooms, the reading room, nor the study stood out as particularly interesting.

The third library had a tapestry on the far wall that caught Adam’s attention right away. He knew the story, everyone did, but he’d never seen it depicted quite that way before.

On the far left, a serpent was wrapped about the trunk of a young tree. It clutched an apple in its undulating coils, offering it to an unabashedly naked woman who stood towards the center. Beside her was a similarly unclothed man facing a featureless angel who held out a sword, blade aloft and wreathed in fire. The angel didn’t look like he was driving the couple out of Eden like in the story. He looked like he was _giving_ Adam the sword, as the snake was giving Eve the apple. The angel and the serpent weren’t even properly looking at the humans, either. Their gazes met above their charges’ heads, locked in an eternal staring contest.  

The books failed to capture Adam’s interest. Most of them weren’t even in English. So, on he went.

Each of the five bathrooms was outfitted with its own complicated-looking shower/bathtub. Most were suitably ostentatious and luxurious, but one was just a solitary claw-foot tub in the center of an otherwise empty and dingey space, with a mirror that took up an entire wall. Dog whimpered uncertainly and would not enter. Adam agreed.

There was also a spiral staircase that creaked abominably beneath his feet and led right up into the ceiling and no further. That was certainly odd, but Adam couldn’t puzzle a way around it, so he moved on.

 The last room to which he came was a greenhouse on the second floor. The existence of the room itself did not strike Adam as odd in any way, but its content filled him with wonder. Sunlight cascaded in torrents through the glass ceiling, setting the humid air ablaze in green fire.

The room was cavernous, and bursting with artfully arranged vegetation. Angel’s trumpet swarmed groaning trellises. Explosions of caladium in striking white and bleeding red. Little pots of snakeroot and calla lilies sat in neat rows. Huge planters of rosary pea grew beside violently pink oleander and hydrangea and countless more. Somewhere deep within the crowding green, a fountain was bubbling. Center stage stood an apple tree, impossibly gnarled and bearing brilliantly scarlet fruit. Every other plant was placed around it in such a way that they were practically worshipping it.

It was like walking into a private jungle.

Adam was at once enchanted and repelled. Once again, each specimen present had been chosen and placed like letters on a page that spelled out a threat. But what a poetic threat! He could appreciate the artistry of it.

He warned Dog not to touch anything, and ventured further inside. There were statues tucked into the greenery. Women wearing flowing dresses and carrying baskets full of wheat. Men in cloaks with scythes. A few nondescript angels, and always, the writhing snakes.

 So enraptured was he, that he failed to notice that one of the paneled windows had been left open, and something was making its slithering way inside.

Adam approached the apple tree, hands twitching. They weren’t poisonous, he knew. Just apples like any other. Except they were probably tastier, probably the sweetest apples ever. He stole apples from R. P. Tyler’s garden all the time, and there so many on this tree, no one would ever notice.

He was reaching for one before he’d quite realized what he was doing. The lowest one. He barely had to stretch. His fingers had just brushed against its shining skin, when something from within the branches hissed.

Understand that this wasn’t the kind of hiss that sounds like a child saying, “ssss,” and sticking out their tongue. Nor was it the sound of the little garden snakes Adam sometimes caught by the creek. This was an altogether deeper, echoing noise, and it sent chills ricocheting down his spine.

An enormous onyx serpent was perched in the trees’ upper branches. It hissed again, black tongue flickering, and dripped lazily from its seat, oozing like tar down the knotted trunk.

Dog yelped with conviction and darted back, yipping for Adam to come away _right now_!

Adam was frozen, staring in surprise, confusion, and maybe a bit of fear. It wasn’t any kind of snake he recognized, but that was impossible, because he knew everything’s name, every animal and plant he ever encountered. And yet, even though he couldn’t begin to guess its species, he was seized with the certainty that he _knew that snake._ He had seen it before, he must have.

_“Adam!”_

He jumped as though he’d been given an electric shock, and leapt away from the tree and the snake. His mother was standing in the doorway with Mr. Fell behind her.

She looked livid.

“Oh, dear,” Mr. Fell was saying, “I really must apologize, it’s quite alright, you see…”

“You don’t need to be sorry for anything, Mr. Fell,” Mrs. Young said, “Adam, you come over here at once and apologize for snooping around this man’s home!”

“He wasn’t snooping,” a new voice chimed in. Mr. Crowley strutted from behind the tree, hands in his pockets, sunglasses in place, and looking supremely bored, “The kid was just admiring my greenhouse, weren’t you, erm, Adam?”

Before Adam could reply, Mr. Crowley continued, “Bright lad you’ve got here, Mrs. Young. Knows his plants. Keen.”

Softened by the praise and mollified by the assurance of no wrongdoing, Mrs. Young wavered.

“Oh,” she said, “Well. That’s alright, then. Sorry, Adam.”

“S’alright,” Adam shrugged, though he was still eyeing Mr. Crowley, who began waving them towards the hall.

“Wonderful to meet you,” he said, “Must do this again sometime. Don’t be strangers and see you soon. Ta!”

Though they at no point descended the stairs, the Youngs found themselves once again on the front step with Mr. Fell in the doorway.

“Please do come again,” he said warmly.

“And don’t forget this,” Mr. Crowley added, handing Adam the wicker basket and its checkered cloth.

And with that, the door was shut.

“Well,” said Mrs. Young brightly, “They were very nice, weren’t they, sweetheart?”

Adam didn’t answer. Instead, he lifted the cloth and discovered that the basket had been filled with apples.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm starting to get an idea of where I want this to go, but I'm still mostly winging it.  
> (Geddit?? WINGING IT????)


End file.
